


The One He Did Not Expect

by MidnightMinx90



Category: Assassin's Creed, Assassin's Creed II - Fandom
Genre: Assassin's Creed: Revelations Spoilers, Blood and Gore, Bloodplay, M/M, Smut, The Lost Archive spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-26
Updated: 2012-05-03
Packaged: 2017-11-04 08:53:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/392023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MidnightMinx90/pseuds/MidnightMinx90
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Desmond is in coma. Clay knows there’s a traitor, but cannot remember who. He’s scared to enter his own memories, so he asks Desmond to go through them. He finds the answer, and when he wakes, tells the others. But is it the right person?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. But She Was Not the Traitor

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Blood, slight slash, spoilers for The Lost Archives; 16's memories

Desmond talked a lot to Clay - as was 16's real name - when he was inside the Animus.  
It was a relief for both of them; because now they both had someone to share the constant fear the different thoughts, times and voices brought on with.  
Even though it was too late for Clay - he'd been dead for about two months - the different ancestors still affected him as they did Desmond.

And wasn't that a part of the reason as to why he'd decided to help Desmond? He knew what it was like, and he'd heard voices, telling him to aid this man as best he could, for there was a traitor among them.  
If he only could remember who it was... But it was locked away in his memories, and even though he knew he had to warm Desmond, he could not go back; could not dare to try to remember the knowledge.

The thoughts and memories couldn't harm him physically - and it could not frighten him into taking his own life - but he was scared nonetheless.  
Scared of not being able to escape the memories again.  
Scared of not being able to give Desmond the help and guidance he still needed so dearly.  
Scared of never being able to tell Desmond about this traitor.

So he did the only thing he could think of; he asked if Desmond would be willing to wander through his memories in search of the truth.  
He did not mention knowing or suspecting anything though, he left that for Desmond.

Desmond most have sensed the importance, or seen something in the way Clay asked him to do it, for he seemed reluctant enough to decline, but he agreed.  
Hopefully he would find out Clay though, and hopefully it would not be the person he cared about.  
Oh yes, Clay knew someone on the team was important to Desmond, but he didn't want to pry.  
At least it wasn't Lucy; Clay could tell that much by the way Desmond had reacted to the news of her death.  
Desmond seemed sad enough about it for Clay to understand they were close, but this wasn't the person Desmond was close to in the romantic sense.  
It wasn't that Clay didn't like her, but there was something about her that had put him off, even though she was an assassin and they were on the same side.

If Clay were to be honest with himself, he would admit to hoping Lucy was the traitor, for then the danger would hopefully be avoided, or at least give the team enough time to get away.  
And it was the most obvious choice as Lucy had worked for Abstergo for some years now.  
But because it would seem an obvious answer, it might not be her after all.

Clay suddenly noticed he sat alone, leaning against a tree on a green island, which was achingly familiar. It looked like the island where he and Desmond were just seconds earlier in some ways, but there was only one stone-arch, the sky and horizon was blue, and the grass green.  
It hit him then why it was so familiar; this was an island he had visited once, years ago, and which he himself, unknowing at the time, had based the animus island on, as a place to anchor himself and his last remaining bits of sanity to.  
For some reason he too was in the memory he had asked Desmond to go through.  
He couldn't continue, so he would sit there under the tree and wait for Desmond to return.

***

Desmond found Clay's memories quite similar to his own, but they were harder to go through. He did not know if it was because it wasn't his own memories, or if it was whatever revelation that lay within.  
But he would find his way through it, and he would find the truth.

Whereas in his own memories, there was only his own voice and the voices of others saying what he had heard them say, in this memory he heard Clay's and what conversations he had heard and participated in, whilst he could not hear his own voice, as if it didn't belong in here.

Two of the memory sequences held a small garden each, with tall, white walls, some water and a tree, like a modern garden built in between tall buildings in a city where you were surprised to see the sunlight. They also looked like they could belong in a newly built rehabilitation center.  
No wonder, Desmond found out through Clay's memories. Before he got involved in the battle between the assassins and Templars, he'd taken an education in engineering and had been seeing a psychiatrist for quite a while. Desmond guessed that these were familiar things to Clay; things that, like the island. Were based in his memory and therefore given a form here in the Animus. 

The further into Clay's memories Desmond went, the closer he felt to some sort of revelation.  
Something felt wrong with the letters from Lucy that he found, and he wondered if that had something to do with it.  
And so he continued, until the revelation; Lucy was the traitor.  
He felt stupid; it all seemed so clear now. 

Lucy had been cut off from the other assassins, forced to work at Abstergo. She had grown up and been trained to be an Assassin, but after being cut off for so many years, after having the Templar ideologies interpreted in her mind; it wasn't all too surprising she'd switched sides.  
And that was of course how they had been found at the last hideout: Lucy had told them, and then they waited until the right time to come and get them.  
But they had gotten away; the Templars hadn't gotten their hands on anything.  
Or had they?

Thinking back, Desmond realized they had to leave in such a hurry that they didn't get to bring everything with them; some of the Animus recordings were still back there. Or, more likely, back at Abstergo, being searched through by yet another "Subject".

Still, something didn't seem quite right Juno's voice appeared in one of the memories; telling Clay to look after him in any way he could. The voice stated they knew there was a traitor, but not who the traitor was, not if it was a male or female, nothing that could help Desmond and Clay figure out if it was Lucy or not.

The memories brought them closer to the truth, but it was not revealed yet.  
So when Desmond was finished going through Clay's memories, he joined him under the tree and they sat there for an immeasurable period of time, discussing what to do.  
They didn't have the time to reach an idea they agreed on however; as the island started crumbling and they were transported back to Animus Island.

Upon landing, Desmond hit the ground rolling and disappeared into the large stone arch.  
Thrown into the last of Ezio's memories, he had no choice but to finish what he was supposed to do.

He finished the memory, without knowing it was the last, and as soon as it was finished, he was thrown back onto the island, just in time to see everything begin to fall apart.  
Clay came running to him and grabbed him tight; Desmond thought he was trying to make him stay there with him.  
But the other man explained that his job in here was now over; Desmond HAD to leave, or else he would most likely never wake from the coma; they were scheduled for deletion.

At first Desmond tried to refuse, but he knew he had to leave.  
He would have disappeared sooner, if Clay hadn't held him tight. As Clay disappeared, Desmond knew this was the last time he'd see him; 16's purpose was fulfilled now. 

Desmond ran towards and through the stone arch.

Once he was in there, he was thrown into the last part of Ezio's memory, where Ezio spoke directly to him. Ezio, knowing he would hear him, urged him to try to make sense of the questions and suffering he had gone through in his life.  
The words caused Desmond to go through another synch nexus.

This time he ended up in a seemingly endless chamber, where he was confronted by Jupiter.  
Jupiter explained the story of Those Who Came Before, the building of the vaults and showed him the story of how they went under.  
Before he disappeared however, he gave Desmond a mission; to visit the Grand Temple.  
He instructed him to take his words, and to "pass them from his head into his hands", for by doing this he would "open the way".  
The last Desmond heard from Jupiter was a warning.  
The warning was that he did not know the outcome of this; neither for Desmond nor himself. 

*

In the back of a van, Desmond Miles woke up, just as the van stopped, having reached its destination.  
Seeing where they were, he got up as if he hadn't been in a coma for the past days.  
"I know what we need to do," he said.

Offering no explanation, he got out of the van, letting the others climb out behind him.  
He quickly pulled Shaun aside, around a bend where they wouldn't be seen.  
Desmond whispered "I missed you so," before he quickly latched his own lips onto Shaun's, having missed the feeling of the other's lips on his.  
He only pulled away because he had to breathe, but even so he barely pulled back enough for their lips not to meet, though their foreheads touched, as well as their noses.

Feeling Shaun's warm breath fan over his face, Desmond closed his eyes and whispered to Shaun.  
"There is a traitor between us; Sixteen knew about it too." He Felt Shaun tense.  
"Did you.. Did you find out who it was?" Shaun asked, the barest trace of nervousness in his voice.  
"It was Lucy," Desmond replied.

"But she was not the traitor," Shaun stated matter-of-factly.  
Desmond looked at his lover with a confused look in his eyes. There seemed to be something wrong with Shaun, he had such a queer look in his eyes. 

Shaun's right arm locked around Desmond's left, flicking his wrist so the hidden blade slid out.  
Desmond frowned, and looked from Shaun's face down to his arm.

***

Shaun drove Desmond's hidden blade into his throat, holding his hand over his mouth in order to stifle the small, pathetic gurgling sounds he made as blood filled Desmond's throat, making it impossible for him to breath.  
As the blood ran down Desmond's throat, Shaun licked his lips, captivated by the look of the blood seeping through his dark t-shirt and white and red hoodie.

Then he yelled for William and Rebecca, changing his expression from glee and malice to utter horror and dread.  
After all, he had pretended to love the bloody (pun not intended) idiot, so he had to play along now as well, even though Desmond was too far gone to notice.  
He heard them come running, and yelled at them to hurry up, call an ambulance, anything.  
"What happened?" Will asked with actual worry in his voice. Even if Shaun didn't care, he was surprised, and found himself wondering if the worry was because Desmond was his son, or if it was because he was the only hope the assassin's had left.  
Making his voice sound like he was scared shitless, he answered  
"I don't know. One moment he was trying to tell me something, in the next his eyes shifted and became golden. He started muttering in Arabic, and then he stabbed himself. It all happened so fast, I didn't have the time to react."

On his right side, Rebecca had crouched down and held Desmond's left wrist, checking his pulse. Then she checked his right wrist.  
"No pulse," she said, choking on her words. Shaun choked back a fake sob, and looked up at William who was standing on his left side.  
"What-what do we do now? He can't be dead, he CAN'T!" Shaun yelled, fake tears welling in his eyes (Let it be said, Shaun Hastings was a first class actor, no one should dare say otherwise. How else could he have managed to fool the assassins?).

"We will have to take him with us," Desmond's dad said. "We might need him. Give me a hand, will you Shaun?"  
"Yes sir." So, what he suspected was true; Bill didn't care enough for Desmond as his son do as what his fatherly duty was, but instead he wanted to take him with them into the cave, in case they could still use him.  
So that was all Desmond Miles was to his father; a tool. Shaun would have smirked if Rebecca hadn't been looking at him. 

As soon as they reached the cave, Shaun pretended he couldn't carry Desmond anymore.  
He claimed it hurt too much; carrying his dead boyfriend and getting soaked in his blood. If Bill found it so important to bring him along, he could bloody well do it himself.  
William looked at him, nodded and picked up Desmond's body bridal style, before wandering into the cave with Rebecca up front with a couple of flashlights. 

As soon as they were out of sight, Shaun picked his mobile out of his pocket and dialed a number, before entering a code when requested.  
"It's done. He's dead. They're in the cave now, so you can send your men in."  
Not waiting for an answer, Shaun hung up, and as he walked away, an evil smirk appeared on his lips and he licked his fingers clear of Desmond's blood, savoring the salty taste of it.

He had done what so many others had failed to do  
He had infiltrated the assassins; made them believe without doubt he was one of them.  
He had killed Desmond Miles.  
And he had gotten away with it.


	2. But He Had His Reasons

One might wonder just why Shaun Hastings did what he did, but he had reasons. 

In the beginning, when he had started talking with Desmond, he had let the other man tell him about everything.  
About his past, his wishes, what he hoped the future would bring and his deepest, most private thoughts. He shared his nightmares with Shaun, the things and people he was when he was caught in the bleeding effect.

In turn, Shaun told Desmond about himself. Or rather, he told him about the person he pretended to be. There were some truths it the stories - like how it started when he was about fourteen or fifteen and how he found Abstergo - but in every truth there was a lie.  
He told him he was an assassin's through and through and that he had killed before, but that he preferred not to do it. The only truth in that lie was that he had killed before; the rest was a lie.  
But Desmond trusted him blindly, and that was his mistake. 

Shaun thought it was pathetic how blindly Desmond trusted him; had he learned _nothing_ growing up on the Farm; nothing after being kidnapped by Abstergo?  
Desmond was a weak fool as far as Shaun was concerned; he held nothing of the strength of his ancestors, and he carried the bloodlines of the most powerful assassins to have ever existed.  
Something must have gone wrong somewhere down one (or more) of the lines - not that Shaun actually cared - it only made it easier for him to manipulate Desmond. 

At night, when Shaun lay awake in their bed after Desmond had fallen asleep, he thought about seeing the walls of an unknown room splattered with blood; carpets and furniture soaked through with the red liquid; a pool of blood around the neck as well as the wrists where the arteries had been severed.  
Sometimes he dreamt of a smashed skull, with bone fragments and brain matter and blood surrounding the head like a halo; one of the eyes laying besides the head and the other staring out of the remains with a shocked look in it; the mouth twisted in surprise and a bit of pain.  
Other times of crushed and broken bones; a body lying on the street or bottom of a staircase in a pool of blood, something that made it look like the person had simply tripped and fallen, not having been pushed.

But always, always was the recurring thoughts of a pool of blood, always the same victim; Desmond Miles. And always the same hands that caused the death; his own.  
It never mattered if he was seeing it all unfold through his own eyes or from the outside; he always felt or saw that victory smirk on his own face, his eyes gleaming with malice and lust for the blood of the younger man.  
Just to dip a feather in the blood as Altaïr would have done, and then have a taste of it in order to celebrate his victory.

Shaun didn't care about the war between the Templars and assassins; he didn't care about the outcome or any other part of it. All he cared about was getting paid for what he had already done and what he was to do.  
He cared about history, he cared about getting paid for what he was worth, and he cared for those who had made history already and what legacy they left behind.  
This war had gone on for hundreds of years, and since he was fairly certain it would continue on for a long time yet, he had no interest in it, for when the time came that this was nothing more than history; nothing more than memories and stories passed down, he would be long gone. 

If his parents had ever bothered to take him to a doctor do get diagnosed - or Shaun had gone himself - he would have gotten one and most likely a form of treatment.  
Shaun was glad his parents had never cared enough about his to do that, or even that something was off with their only child.  
So instead Shaun had grown up emotionless - the distance of his parents hadn't actually helped the case. He had been bullied in school for being such a history nerd, but young Shaun had never cared. He was who he was, and as soon as the bullies discovered it wasn't affecting him - no matter what they did  they gave up.

So yes, Shaun grew up alone, surrounded by history books. But he never felt alone; he always felt surrounded by the people of those histories as he read them; always imagined himself being them or being there with them.  
The historian had a very colourful imagination, so vivid he sometimes swore he could feel the crunch of leaves under his feet or the mud in the streets; he could smell the sewers or rainforests; he could feel the sun or the rain or the wind on his face; the boat rocking under him as they sailed into a storm. 

He never shared it with anyone though, that was something no one else ever found out.  
Once though, he told Desmond. He didn't know why, he was supposed to feed him lies and half-truths, nothing this personal. So in order to save himself, he claimed that was how it was for him when he was young, but he stopped feeling like that long before he went to college. 

In truth though, he still had that vivid imagination.  
When he dreamt of killing Desmond, he could feel the skin under his hands; hear and feel the breath of his "lover"; he could taste the salty, rusty taste of his blood, which somehow tasted a bit different from any other person's. 

Shaun couldn't remember if he'd ever had a nightmare, but after he shagged Desmond the first time, he had one.  
In that dream he was a different person; a person who was with Desmond because he wanted to, because it was his choice, not something he was paid to do; in that dream he _loved_ Desmond.  
He'd woken with a jolt, and Desmond was there in an instant, trying to comfort him as best he could.  
When asked what was wrong, Shaun had lied as easily as any other time and claimed he dreamt Desmond died and that they'd lost the war against the Templars.  
All lies and Desmond couldn't tell the difference. He truly was a dim-witted American and Shaun loathed him all the more for it. 

Each day and each night - which he unfortunately had to spend with Desmond curled around him - brought him closer to the end of his task, which was the only reason for him managing to hold out.  
Of course, he knew he couldn't just finish the task before the time the contract stated, but it wasn't easy.  
Having a sweaty, clingy American stuck to him all night wasn't exactly on top of Shaun's list of things he enjoyed. 

And then Lucy had gotten herself killed, all because Those Who Came Before had fallen for his trap, and assumed it was Lucy who was the traitor, when in truth there never was a traitor.  
How could he be a traitor when he'd never been on their side in the first place?  
No, he wasn't a traitor; he was a man who only followed his own laws and those of the ones who paid him to do a job until that job was done. 

Desmond had gone into a coma because of the combined forces of shock and Ezio's Apple of Eden.  
As much as Shaun had wanted to run away, he couldn't. The contract clearly stated that Desmond had to die; going into a coma wasn't enough.  
And then Desmond's father had to show and make it all the more complicated. If he hadn't, Shaun would've made off with Desmond and Rebecca in a car accident, which he would be "lucky not to be a part of" because he would have been back at the safe house doing research as usual. 

Instead he had to stick around for a few more days, and then Desmond woke from the coma.  
What Shaun hadn't expected however, was to be lead straight to the place the Templars were looking for; another vault, like the one in Rome where Ezio had hidden his Apple.  
Shaun didn't give a shit about the Temple, or if there might be a Piece of Eden in there or not.  
Desmond was there, now he could kill him at last, and he'd led the Templars straight to the place they sought, which hopefully would bring him a damn big bonus.  
Maybe they'd let him get access to another treasure chamber or let him be a part of a digging-site next time they stumbled upon one. 

The best thing was that Desmond gave him the perfect opportunity to deal with his "problem". He let himself be pulled to the side, letting William and Rebecca think it was because they needed a small moment of privacy, they were lovers after all.  
William might not approve, but as long as his son stuck to the path that had been chosen for him, Bill didn't care what or who he was doing.  
Oh, and the look on Desmond's face when he told him Lucy had been a traitor, and how he said it was over now; they were safe from the Templars for at least a little while longer...  
Shaun had to struggle not to facepalm and laugh mockingly at him.

No, instead he grasped Desmond's left arm and flicked it so the hidden blade slid out of its sheath.  
He took a moment to enjoy the confused look in Desmond's eyes and didn't bother to hide the look he now knew had appeared in his eyes; just like in his dreams.  
Then he drove the blade into Desmond's throat.


	3. But Was He Really Gone?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is it  
> This is LE END!

But Was He really Gone?

 

Shaun Hastings wasn't a man of feelings for the people in the present; he only cared for those who had made history.

He was the man who had managed to fool the assassins; he had tricked them into believing him, tricked them into "saving" him from the Templars. 

He was the man who had tricked Desmond Miles - the "chosen" one - into believing he loved him and cared for him.  
And then Shaun had killed him in cold blood.

He had grown to loath Desmond, for he was so eager to cuddle and kiss him, so eager to "make love" to him, it made Shaun sick.

But now, the hatred and loathing he felt towards the dead man had grown into a festering wound.  
Each night, Shaun dreamt of Desmond and him; dreamt of them being together, loving one another. In those dreams, he was happy; _they_ were happy.  
When he woke after those dreams in the beginning, he'd felt violently sick and he had barely made it to the toilet in time. 

It had been going on for a few weeks before Shaun started dreading falling asleep.  
He did everything imaginable to at first slip into a dreamless sleep, and when that had failed, he tried everything in order to not fall asleep.  
But when he hadn't slept for over two days straight, he'd began seeing things.  
Or rather, he'd begun seeing Desmond.

He saw him everywhere he turned, and he often thought he saw many of him in one or more places.  
As if that wasn't bad enough, when he finally submitted to sleep and woke a day later, he saw Desmond in his apartment.  
He thought it a dream, so he ignored him and went back to his bed.  
But then he felt his bed dip, as if someone sat down on it.  
Barely daring to turn his head to look, he saw Desmond sit there, looking at him with a queer look in his eyes and the ghost of a sad smile on his lips. Desmond didn't speak, he just looked at him.  
Enraged, Shaun picked up the knife he kept under his pillow and swung it towards Desmond.  
The knife went right through him, as did part of Shaun's arm.

The shock caused Shaun to drop the knife, pull his arm back and back away towards the other end of the bed.  
The thing moved, and when its hand stretched out toward Shaun's cheek, Shaun could feel it, as solid as any flesh.

Shaun bolted upright in his bed, his chest heaving and beads of sweat covering his forehead, soaking his hair.  
Looking around he could see nothing and no one. 

Flopping back on his back, he tried to calm his breath as a nervous chuckle left him.  
A nightmare. That was all it was, a nightmare.  
But doubt still gnawed at him, and he could have sworn he could still feel the warmth of that hand on his cheek.  
Shaking his head, thinking it foolish to believe such things, he turned to look at the time. 

Five in the morning, which meant he's slept for almost a whole day. He was still exhausted though, so he closed his eyes and tried to calm his breath. For a moment, he just laid there, staring at the ceiling.  
After a while, he got out of bed, and the rest of the day was thankfully uneventful. 

But the next night, the _thing_ was back again, looking the same at first.  
Then Shaun noticed a blooming, red wound on the thing's throat. Like the wound Desmond received after Shaun stabbed him.  
The blood ran down the previously white hoodie, and the thing - for it wasn't Desmond and Shaun refused to think of it as him - looked down on the blood, surprise clearly written on its face.  
Then it dipped two of his fingers in the red fluid and looked at Shaun before putting the fingers in its own mouth, licking them clean, with an expression of pure bliss on its face.  
Shaun couldn't remember the last time he'd been that turned on.  
And when the thing had licked its fingers clean, it once again dipped in in blood and offered it to Shaun, who willingly accepted it.  
They both leaned into one another at the same time, their lips meeting, their mouths opening, offering the other full access to their own mouth. They tasted each other, their tongues moving together in a passionate dance.  
And the taste, oh, the taste! The metallic taste of blood mixed with that something else from the creature's mouth...

The dream ended abruptly.  
Shaun found himself sitting propped up against the headboard on his bed, his mouth open, panting, and his right hand mid-air, as if curling up in someone's hair, holding that someone's head in place.  
Letting his arm drop to his side, he suddenly noticed the worst part; his cock was straining against his boxers.  
Conjuring images from that dream, he reached down to free his cock from the restraining cotton. 

A shuddering sigh escaped him as he began stroking his shaft, lazy at first, then faster, harder and more urgent. Using his left hand, he began massaging his balls.  
Feeling the release building up, he began sliding his thumb over the slit, slicking parts of his cock with pre-cum. His back arched and his toes curled, but he wasn't close enough.  
There was something lacking. Shaun licked his lips and tasted blood.  
And that was all he needed to completely fall apart; his seeds coating his stomach, his back arching even more and he had to bite his lip in order to not scream out Desmond's name.  
He'd bitten hard enough to draw blood, but he didn't mind. Instead, he started sucking on his bottom lip, enjoying the taste of the blood, though it didn't taste as wonderful as Desmo that thing's blood.

The next night was just the same, only it lasted longer this time.  
Blood was offered in the same way, but this time the creature offered his neck to Shaun, letting the historian lick and suck at it.  
Oh, but the sounds the creature made, those sounds of pleasure  
Shaun felt his cock twitch, and let out a breathless sigh against the creature's throat.  
As if on cue, the creature's right hand sneaked down between them and covered Shaun's dick through his boxers.  
The Brit buried his head in the crook of the creature's neck and he arched up against the hand that provided such warmth and pleasure just by that simple touch.  
Shaun started moving his hips, desperate for friction

And then he woke. He could still taste the blood on his lips and tongue; could still feel the warmth of the hand that had covered his cock.  
So Shaun's day began just as the previous one; with him jerking off to the memories of a dream.

And the night after that went by in the same manner.  
Blood being offered from fingers and neck, one hand against his hard cock, Shaun's hips moving in order to get friction  
The creature ripped off Shaun's boxers and Shaun had to bite down on its neck in order to muffle his sounds of pleasure.  
It didn't seem to mind however, and only made sounds of pleasure itself as the creature's right hand gripped Shaun's cock. The hand moved slowly, painfully so, which only made Shaun try to move his hips as much as he could to get more friction.  
He turned his head, so he could lap up more of that delicious blood.

He woke again, this time with his mouth open, and tongue frozen mid-air as if trying to lap up some blood.

And so his dreams continued; longer and more eventful.

Two nights later, he woke just as he was coming.

Three nights after that, he was standing on all fours in his bed.

And the night after that was the best one.  
After making him come the first time, the creature kissed him, and the kiss was filled with so much raw lust and want, Shaun didn't want to stop.  
He could feel his member grow hard again, and saw that the creature's dick was straining against the denim of its jeans.  
Shaun wanted, needed, it naked. So he began undressing it.  
The red and white hoodie went first. Then its shoes, socks, t-shirt  here Shaun stopped to drag his fingers over its upper body, painting it with streaks of blood  jeans and lastly the boxers.  
Seeing the cock, Shaun's mouth watered, so he bent down to lick it, suck it, smell it.  
Shaun was very talented with his mouth, and soon had the creature writhing and mewling. With a loud pop, he removed his mouth from the creature's cock, a smirk playing on his lips.  
The creature didn't sound awfully pleased, but seemed to know what to do.  
Using its left hand, it coated its dick in blood from the neck wound that was still pouring, making sure to keep Shaun's eyes locked with its own as he did.  
And then he flipped Shaun over, making sure he was on all fours.

In a moment, it was right behind him, sticking two blood-coated fingers up Shaun's ass.  
Shaun let out a hiss of pain, but it was soon gone, replaced with building pleasure as the creature began scissoring its fingers.  
When the fingers slipped out, Shaun let out a disappointed sound, which was cut off when he felt the bloody dick enter him.  
His back arched and damn, how it hurt, for the cock was larger than he though. Neither of them moved, until Shaun began trembling and slowly started pushing his ass backwards.  
Taking that as a sign, the creature pulled almost all the way out, before slamming into him again. 

Again and again it slammed into him, trying to find a perfect angle in order to hit Shaun's prostate.  
And when it found that angle, it began slamming into him harder and harder.  
Shaun met every thrust and could feel himself coming closer and closer each time the creature hit his prostate.  
And then a hand covered in blood sneaked down and circled his cock, pumping it in time with the thrusts.  
The creature came, nothing but sounds of pleasure escaping those scarred lips, and Shaun came not long after, screaming out Desmond's name, mixed in with swears. 

The creature leaned in close, and licked the shell of Shaun's ear.  
"Payback," it whispered into his ear and Shaun felt a knife burying itself between his ribs.

The Brit had never been scared in his life, but he woke screaming from that dream that had turned into a nightmare.  
He felt semen running out from his asshole, down his legs.  
Still on all fours, he dared to look down and felt relieved when he saw no wound. He saw his own dick covered in blood.  
But even though there was no wound, he could swear he felt the pain of the knife. 

Nothing happened during the nights of the next week, but Shaun could feel himself get weaker and weaker and he could still see Desmond everywhere, except that now he was naked, bloody and dick fully erect and covered in blood.  
He also felt the sting of where the knife had slipped into him in his dream. 

Two weeks later, he was in bed in his apartment, not having enough strength to do anything other than just lying there.  
He'd been to several doctors, but no one had found anything wrong with him. 

Two months later, the fire department broke into his flat, because his neighbours had complained about a foul smell.  
The call had come from a man who called himself the Eagle.  
What they found was what remained of the body of a thirty-something year old man, propped up against the headboard of the bed.  
The eyes were gone, but the glasses still on; there was no blood left in his body - it had all soaked his mattress and bed-covers - and there was not one wound.  
There was no note or clue or anything explaining what had happened.

But when the coroner later looked at the body, he found the words "I'm sorry Desmond" etched into the palm of his left hand.  
The words hadn't been there earlier, they had shown up two days after he had been brought to the morgue.


End file.
